


T minus 10 seconds

by SoroTheAndroid



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Duck Hybrid Alexis | Quackity, Enderman Hybrid Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Fox Hybrid Floris | Fundy, Gen, Hybrid Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentioned Antfrost (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Darryl Noveschosch, Mentioned GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Jack Manifold, Mentioned SMPEarth, Mentioned Sam | Awesamdude, Mentioned Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Zak Ahmed, Older Sibling Niki | Nihachu, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Suicidal Thoughts, Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), They/Them Pronouns for Eret (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Has PTSD (Video Blogging RPF), Traitor Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Alexis | Quackity, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), no beta we die like Tubbo at the festival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29592333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoroTheAndroid/pseuds/SoroTheAndroid
Summary: The birth and death of a nation, as witnessed by its founders, citizens and rulers, and laughed at by generals, dictators and conceited creators.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	T minus 10 seconds

**Author's Note:**

> A few things to clarify, first, I procrastinated making this for so long that I first thought of it before the life system was implemented, so its very very late. This also means that characters like Dream act like they did Pre-November 16th and are therefore a little more sympathetic. Second, I both completely made up backstories for characters, along with taking inspiration from CC's past content, such as Tommy's 2B2T videos and Wilbur's Skyblock series.

_10_

She was the first new citizen to arrive after the war. 

Like the first peek of the sun after an eternity of dark clouds, she made herself a place in a country formed on blood and betrayal. Her uniform was different to the others, cleaner, neater. The wool hadn’t been stolen away hastily and shoved in deep chests in the ground; the gold was shiny and new, the leather tanned without marks. Either way, she wore it with a sort of naive pride, the rarity of knowing the history behind it all and having the privilege of not fighting for the freedom to don it. She wasn’t accustomed to the dirt and grime of rough pits in the ground, nor the sleeplessness of a 4 hour watch. Her skin wasn’t littered with scars of broken promises.

Niki was welcomed into the new nation warmly and with great vigour.

Under her watch, L’Manburg began to heal, and she had smiled with a feeling of accomplishment as the faces of the few citizens grew less and less gaunt as she set up her bakery. She took the position of a fifth person, a shadow too dark and deep for her to truly understand. She hoped to never experience the bleakness of continuous fighting, never have to see the brutality and the tyranny that had splintered the eyes of those around her.

She became a sister to two boys hardly much younger than herself, one who spat his words like fire, who wore his emotions on his sleeve, _(who struggled to breathe with a barely closed wound deep in his chest)_ , one who rattled off complex redstone mechanics to her as she baked, who took care of the wildlife around the walls, _(who froze at the sound of metal on metal.)_

She became an accomplice to a young man’s pranks, let him rant about the coddling and belittling behaviour he received from their president, helped him enact revenge when an Esempi member slaughtered his fox companion, _(woke him from nightmares of a dark room and a deep voice.)_

And she became a voice of reason to the man she had known long before she moved here, a man who had changed so much in such a short time. She made sure he ate and slept, encouraged him to make music again, helped supervise as he experimented with his new admin powers as a ruler. _(She pulled him off his perch at the top of the wall, because even though he had increased the nation’s respawns to a non lethal amount, she couldn’t trust him enough to not try them out.)_

Niki hadn’t met many people from the other side of the war; she had arrived from the opposite direction and Wilbur didn’t want her crossing into their territory. The look in his eyes as he asked her not to venture too far away from the walls made her agree with little thought; it had sounded scarily like an order, but she brushed past the implication. However, she had eventually ignored that agreement and stood by Fundy’s side as he confronted a man with wild eyes and a bandana singed with open flames, and while yelled over his fox, she remembered Tommy’s growls about a monster who had burned down their forests and taken both respawns from his best friend. And she remembered Tubbo’s quiet words about a hyperactive young man who, before the war began, he had considered a brother. 

Sightings of the other Esempi members weren’t uncommon, but she rarely paid attention to them. The colourful splash of a hood, purple clothing in the shadows, the bright shine of a golden medallion. White goggles reflected in a window, a black and red silhouette accompanied by a bold blue figure. And surprisingly often, a white mask peering at the walls from inside a tree. She knew what she would do if they tried to approach her, even if it cost her a respawn. After all, spitting in their faces would be a more powerful message if it were bloody.

Meeting the traitor who destroyed her new family was worse than hearing about them. 

They approached her bakery one day, armed with a smile that looked more smug than friendly, asking for some food. The surprised look on their face as she slammed the door on them gave her some sort of satisfaction, but not enough to keep her peaceful. 

They had tried again the next day, but Niki came prepared with a lock, a key, and a small window she could peek out of. It was the only reason she saw their face fall when nobody answered their knocks.

Eret doesn’t come back and she thought it was the end of any sort of contact, but when the winter arrived, leaving her stuck outside in the cold, trying desperately to find her way back to the walls in the snowstorm, they spot her from their castle and help her. She was reluctant, as she should be, but they were nothing but respectful and kind, and she wondered for the first time why they would ever choose to betray a land of people so close together for a group who ostracised and left them in an empty fortress with nobody but themself for company.

When she worked tirelessly to sew together fabrics, they were the one who stopped by at midnight and stayed until she slept. She did not blame the others for staying away; none of them knew about her project, and she saw the way they tensed up outside the walls as though they were waiting for the strike of a blade.

Besides, the look on her new family’s faces when she presented them with a flag to hang up made everything worth it. Tommy had let out a giddy laugh, Tubbo grinned like he’d been given everything he could ever want. And as Fundy examined the fabric with a delicacy she had only ever seen with his own redstone projects, Wilbur pulled her into a hug and a shaky ‘Thank you’ was whispered in her ear. It was a moment in time where everyone was calm and peacetimes seemed permanent.

_(Months later she screamed in agony as if a blade had struck her, having watched the flickering flames devour her flag as she crumpled to the ground. Eret cried out from behind her but to her, they were so very far, betrayal tearing through her as the torch left Fundy’s claws, a broken, shaking grin adorning his face. She wondered if she could have helped him in some way as Eret wrapped their arms around her, pulling her away from the looming shadow of a new ruler. Instead, she let herself be led and let her mind warp from kindness to fury.)_

_9_

He refused to be seen as scared and be mocked as a coward.

He left behind shortcuts and footpaths when exiting their walls; he had given up everything for their nation’s freedom and the treaty should allow them to exist beyond their suffocatingly small borders. So when he traversed the wooden path, he held his head high, wearing his uniform as a badge of honour, refusing to hide it. He walked at his usual fast pace, not faster, not stumbling, and ignored the burn in his chest that set him on fire every time he took a step.

Tommy was not a coward, he was not a child or a brat, and he would not be seen as one.

He carried on as if everything was normal, boisterous and brash, waving his arms and gesturing wildly, ignoring the way Wilbur’s eyes were filled with worry, and the way Tubbo tried to get him to stay still. He ignored the aches and pains like he ignored the health potions he was given and pretended that Esempi didn't exist, pretended that the wound in his chest was not a centimeter away from his heart.

The wound itself was its own special sort of betrayal, a reminder how much the bastard on the other side had lied and taken everything from them. As Admin, he must’ve seen Tommy had no respawns left. Yet, he still aimed that wretched arrow to kill. Killing with respawns was one thing, permadeath was something so completely different, something so forbidden that Tommy had never met anybody who dared end another’s existence. Even as the tip of the arrow had ripped open his chest, he had refused to die, to leave the people he knew behind. _(Even those in Esempi.)_

Tommy missed the times he could look back on server memories fondly. When he had first joined Esempi, he had been so ~~naive~~ ~~foolish~~ bold. After all, he’d only ever met one person able to create a world on their own, this would surely be no different. But the masked man cloaked in green and white, followed by more mystery than companions was a solo server owner. Tommy had hardly believed it; Dream barely acted old enough to be of age to have a server. 

It was different back then, before the war, before the killings, before even the small arguments. He might have even considered Dream a brother at one point. But now, the image of the man’s damned mask kept him awake just as much as the pain and the silence did. The jukebox lay empty as a reminder of his sacrifice and the sleepless nights refused to let him forget.

In time, more people arrived, Jack, Quackity, and Tommy welcomed them with a carefully crafted facade of his old self. He showed them around his nation, warning them of manipulation with a carefree laugh and quick deflection, praying that they’d listen. He pretended not to see how Jack’s steps faltered, how Quackity’s smile fell as he grinned and he joked and _he was still his old self he had to be, Dream couldn’t have taken that away from him too._

He looked at his reflection one day and remembered when Wilbur had invited a guest to the server, an old friend he had claimed. He acted differently around Schlatt, louder, boastful, more confident - Tommy had thought it was happiness, but looking back on how the man refused to stay near Schlatt in the Nether, or how he hadn’t taken him to the coral reefs, he realised. All he needed to do was put on the mask, and he could see the same face staring back in the mirror, something fake and hollow. But Wilbur’s fears of the lava and of the tides were justified with dozens of respawns, Tommy wasn’t the same. He could pick up a bow without shaking too much and he could pull back an arrow ~~but never fire~~. He was fine.

_(He thought about asking Wilbur or Tubbo, about messaging Phil or even Techno. He wanted to know what was wrong with him. He never did.)_

Instead, he stole resources from chests to piss off Esempi, left fence gates open and trees messily chopped down. It wasn’t proper revenge, but Tommy wasn’t himself without being a little petty. He collected cobble and iron and built a rugged line up into the sky, adding rails as he went along. When Schlatt called to talk to him and pointed out the rollercoaster was too steep to run properly, Tommy laughed it off as intentional. Nobody needs to know how his hands shook too much from being up so high, where the wind whistled just like an arrow over a boardwalk. Nobody needed to know because it was just a stupid noise and he was stupid for being scared of it. 

He just wanted things to go back to how they were, when he could sleep normally and laugh normally and not have to worry about the overwhelming pressure of L’Manburg. So when Wilbur had suggested an election, Tommy immediately agreed. He ignored how Wilbur had locked himself in the camarvan for days with muted, dark mutters and darker eyebags. He ignored Phil’s penned questions as to why his son never wrote anymore. And he especially ignored how Wilbur had begun to carry a sword at his hip when he could barely wield one before the war. After all, that’s what the Tommy before the duel would have done. He would’ve been loud and brash and spammed his friend with questions, but he would never question Wilbur’s ideas. And he was still the same Tommy, so he would do the same things. 

_(He stood banished on the hills outside their former nation as Wilbur fell to his knees at the sight of the missing walls. He frantically called Techno, ignored Tubbo’s scared messages. And when the night came with the promise of distant backup, a hole carved into a cliffside and a wound bandaged with torn sleeves, the mask finally began to crack and break. Tommy stood watch in a place he refused to call home and let the tears fall silently until there was nothing left but the sunrise preceding a day that felt so eerily like the beginnings of a nation ripped from his grasp.)_

_8_

He slept curled up under a tree, and when he woke, the walls had boxed him in.

He never planned to join the rebellion - after all, he was no fighter. The most he could do was stay awake with little sleep and piss off the Admin with his coding abilities. But when they scraped together one last uniform with remnants of dye leaving colours chalky and washed out, he couldn’t refuse. He saw the way the rebels loved in the way someone had gone out of their way to make a tail hole - something he’d never seen in clothing he hadn't modified. He saw how they didn’t care when he fumbled with a sword, they were a nation that fought with their speeches and their declarations.

Fundy came to the server to get away from judging eyes, and he was picked up by the strays and he was cared for.

He wasn’t used to being around humans at first. He had lived with other hybrids most of his short life, all masks and extra appendages. He could tell that several of L’Manburg’s citizens hadn’t lived around hybrids in the way Tubbo sometimes pet his tail or how Tommy tried to steal his mask. It was uncomfortable, but bearable. They were kids, they weren’t mature, they had time to learn. _(He was barely seven years old, but he didn’t share.)_

Wilbur was somehow the most and least understanding. It was over drinks that burnt his throat while the youngest two slept that the other three members had talked, the crackling of a lit fire creating background noise for childhood stories. Eret talked about a faraway kingdom with strict policies and coughing citizens, all choked by the smog and poison of a mad king. Wilbur shared memories of a life before war, hybrids and humans together, about a loving father with phantom wings, a bloodthirsty family friend donned in a piglin mask and a crown, about two boys fastened at the hip whom he had come to rescue from a tyrant. And Fundy, in a quiet whisper, mentioned fire and blood and humanity’s hatred for those different than themselves.

It was there, with the loose tongue of alcohol, he had mentioned the difference in hybrid aging. Sure, he looked twenty, had the maturity of an adult, all tall legs with smarts and common sense, but he wasn’t even in double digits. There had been a smothering silence, where Fundy hadn’t dared to look, but it was broken with Wilbur’s drunken joke of adoption, the soft nudge of a boot on his leg and Eret’s milky white look of support and he could relax once again.

The sinking of his heart the next morning was accompanied by their leader’s remark of ‘little champion’, spoken in a hybrid language that he shouldn’t know and a grin that looked a little too genuine to be teasing. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

It continued throughout their battle for freedom, throughout the loss of a best friend who was his only true support, throughout the writing of the treaty. Fundy had wanted to scream, to cry, ~~to throw a tantrum,~~ everytime Wilbur cupped his cheeks under his mask _why won’t he stop?_

Niki was no replacement for Eret, but she was just as strong a friend. She was the one to suggest he talk to the new Esempi king, and was the one who triggered the breakdown between two former best friends who clung desperately in a hug, opposite sides of land be damned. Fundy wasn’t sure how long it would take for him to fully forgive Eret, but he knew it would happen. _(He ignored the childish, emotional side of him that wanted to ignore them, to shriek noiselessly in their face, to act his age.)_

Despite the mistreatment, he was still attached to his f- to his President. But still, the growing resentment over being babied and ‘protected’ bubbled under his skin as he was ignored in favour of Tommy, of Tubbo, of Niki and Jack. It wasn’t poisonous jealousy that caused his small rebellious acts, because that would be admitting that Wilbur had made his place as a father figure in his life. Instead, he pretended it was independence, determination, ~~idiocy~~. He wandered through Esempi in such a carefree way that he knew Wilbur hated, shed his uniform in favour of worn, comfortable jackets and trousers and revelled in the way the older man’s eyes would become steely for seconds before the babying returned. 

The playful flirting and joking engagement with Dream, though originally something to taunt his ~~father~~ President with became an act he held to his chest, something kept secret. The tentative friendship was too real to be faked, and the sense of hybrid kinship was something special. He doubted Dream knew that he knew of his hybrid traits; he was human passing with the eerie mask he never took off. But even without seeing his enemies eyes, he could hear silent remorse in the way he had flinched at the gouge in Fundy’s ear, or the way he ‘accidentally’ let Tommy take back Mellohi. Wilbur had already snapped at him for visiting Eret, and the fear and shame of disappointing him stuck true - nobody would know about his late night ventures.

The negative feelings finally began to spill over in a wave when he caught wind of an election, of the planned rig for a one party system. He wasn’t surprised by his ~~father’s~~ President’s actions; unlike Tommy and Tubbo, the children that they were, _he_ had noticed Wilbur’s slow decay. It was so clear in the way he held himself, guarded by paranoia and a shiny sword, in the way he refused to let anyone associated with Esempi, anyone not associated with L’Manburg into their lands. Quackity was right to run against him and Fundy would do the same. 

The rational part of him clamoured that it was for the safety of their nation; they needed a stable leader after all. It was drowned out by the whine for authority, for power, for the need to be taken seriously. The internal battle raged throughout the debates, the declaration of four parties, the coalition between Schlatt and Quackity. All throughout, he watched with a childish satisfied gaze, hidden under a mask he refused to let Wilbur touch, looking away from Niki’s worried glances as she stood as his running mate. 

_(Clipped clawed fingers grasped at the suit jacket, trying to ignore the red mark on his cheek. It had been silly to try and ask Schlatt if he could still wear his mask. The President hadn’t meant to slap him, he apologised afterwards! He’d told Fundy he must understand that masks hid things and that wasn’t okay in Manberg. He passed by the Vice President and held back a soft whine that Quackity didn’t hear over the everpresent clap of thunder; Fundy would be a good boy and maybe Schlatt would hold his shoulders again like Wilbur never did.)_

_7_

He created the server and watched as he became the villain in its history.

He remembered the day it was made, just as clear as the water around their shared house. It had been a communal decision; a server of peace, of unity, a place for friends to just be friends and be free from responsibility. It was so clear, with the mismatched planks and leaky roof that they weren’t builders, they weren’t meant for a life free of conflict. But it was home and they were happy and that was all that had mattered. Then more people were invited and more buildings were made and more rules were added because he needed order, ruling, he needed authority.

Dream craved control over his own land, and that ultimately led to his downfall.

There weren’t many of them at first; Dream, George, Sapnap, Callahan, a wooden house over a lake for them all to share. Sam, Alyssa, Ponk, the buildings began to branch out; everyone needed their space. Bad visited one day and fit back into their group like he had never left, there were pets, towers, courthouse cases. Punz, Tubbo, Fundy, Purpled.

Tommy.

The teenager with a loud mouth and louder presence was the first threat to Dream’s land, and he refused to ever admit it. It had been silly, the way that it had all played out. Joking kills that sent Ponk and Alyssa back to their homes over and over forced him to intervene, and he was ~~scared~~ angry that the same thing happened to him. Tommy had killed him, but respawns be damned, he didn’t die often, especially not to the blade of a sword or the tip of an arrow.

So he had stolen Tommy’s discs and with it, any semblance of peace the server would see.

The fights, later looked back on as the ‘Disc Wars’, weren’t any sort of proper battle. There wasn’t the two respawn rule of real war, Dream hadn’t believed it to be that serious _(yet somehow that made it all the more brutal)_. It allowed him to kill Tommy and Tubbo over and over with no real consequence, and in the end, he was left with no discs and the whisper of revolution. 

He hadn’t known Wilbur was close with Tommy, otherwise he might’ve never let the man enter. All he had known about him was that he had helped run the Earth server, content with peace and punishing the three men who tried to take over the world. In a sense, he believed Wilbur would be on his side, against the childish and rude behaviour of his citizens. Dream realised he couldn’t have been more wrong when he saw the way Tubbo threw himself into a hug the way he had never done with anybody else, saw the way Tommy begrudgingly let Wilbur ruffle his hair without slapping hands away, a small smile across his face.

If Tommy was the spark of rebellion, Wilbur was the endless fuel that turned that spark into a forest fire.

It was clear Dream was being tested as to what was ‘allowed’ on the server, technicalities shoved in his face. He sent Sapnap to investigate, but he had come back saying they were merely selling food in a van, as if the missing brewing stands and blaze powder across the land wasn’t a staggering loss to their fighting ability. When the people woke the next morning with the infinity symbol on their wrist being replaced with three blood red hearts, they knew war was on the horizon.

By the time he agreed to Tommy’s furious spit of a duel, he almost felt in control again. With Eret’s betrayal, the rebels were left without their supplies, and Dream had gained a political puppet who seemed to believe they actually had any sort of power in the land they were king of. It was the relief of rightful power being returned that made him forget to check the boy’s respawns. As Admin, he could see the lives that people had left if he looked properly, but to do so, he would have to remove his mask, show off his horrible eyes, and that was something he never wanted to do. So he didn’t; surely Wilbur wouldn’t let his right hand man throw his life away.

_(He was so so wrong.)_

The arrow hadn’t quite hit Tommy’s heart - he didn’t take into account the way the water bobbed his enemy up and down as he took aim and fired. The same water that dyed itself red in a child’s blood while his allies' cheer of victory choked and died along with Tommy’s breathing, as Tubbo screamed something about no respawns over his best friend’s dying gargles. There was a frantic scramble as Fundy ran for a healing potion, as Ponk tried to stem the flow of blood that wouldn’t stop invading the clear water of his land.

Dream didn’t see much else, didn’t remember much else, as he was dragged away by Sapnap, static in his mind and Wilbur’s glare of promised retribution. He had nearly permanently killed a child and for what? Their right to an independent faction on his server? The bile in his throat tried to choke him and when he blinked, he was somewhere else, deep in the forest where he could throw up. The voice in his head that forced him to push down his hybrid traits was suffocated by panicked thoughts of _murderer murderer murderer-_

He only learned that Tommy had survived when the boy dragged himself to Dream’s door in the middle of the night, bandages and no uniform, two discs held in bloody hands, choking on the plea for independence. Dream gave it to him and carried him back to the walls of L’Manburg, and the next morning, before he talked himself out of it, gave part of his Admin powers to L’Manburg’s president.

With respawns reset to infinite, he reverted back to the mysterious Admin, cracking jokes and pretending like the walls of L’Manburg didn’t make him feel physically ill. He built the Holy Lands with Tommy and when he finally heard the boy laugh after months of angry silence, something in him felt warm again. He ventured to unexplored land at the sound of elections, leaving notes for his return date, trusting L’Manburg’s president to keep the peace while he was gone.

_(In a panicked haze, he ran through the forest, clutched the mask at his face. He couldn’t tell if he teleported using a Pearl or not. Why was a banned dictator standing in place of Wilbur, why couldn’t he find George, why couldn’t he access Admin controls? His allies worked willingly under Schlatt while he alone couldn’t enter the nation without showing his face. The ex president was spiralling and Dream could only go along with his plans, pretending like he had one of his own. He had nobody, no powers and no plans. Everything might as well have been for nothing.)_

_6_

They wanted security in power and became chained to the title of ‘the traitor king’.

It wasn’t a decision from the blue - they had thought about it even before the declaration of war. Rebellion wasn’t worth much to someone wanting peace and a name known for obedience. So they approached Dream in the dead of night with a smile that was all teeth and sealed the fate of L’Manburg before it had even risen from the grass and the dirt. Hiding deceit behind shades and plans behind words, they led a rebellion to their deaths with a smile and a salute, pretending as though the group hadn’t made them feel safe.

Eret betrayed a doomed revolution and became a figurehead to someone who gave them no power.

It was calming at first, the peace and quiet of the castle. It gave them time to think, to relax as the warm beams of the sun leaked through colourful windows. The construction had taken a lengthy amount of time, but Eret was nothing if not determined. If they could build the walls of a caged nation in the time it took Tommy to decide on a name, they could work throughout the endless nights, laying bricks down by hand.

_(Pretending the sleeplessness was for a project rather than the nightmares of bloody outstretched hands and choked screams was their sole comfort.)_

The regret came only when they saw bees make a home in their garden, having turned to grin at a boy who no longer looked them in the eyes. It was like a shadow, the guilt was. It followed them no matter what and only seemed to grow and grow as they sat out in the sun, ladled with documents that Dream passed to them as the new king. Soon, as the sun reached its peak, the shadow engulfed them, clinging and making their chest constrict with emotions they hadn’t bothered to address. 

The empty days were filled with monotony, signing papers through injured vision while their thoughts created battles filled with back stabbings in their head. Totalled up, the ends justify the means. Eret needed power and a name for themself, and if they couldn’t create it, they would take the outstretched hand of any monster that offered it. People relied on them to help, and the crown of a King would surely hold power to another ruler. In this way, they could help servers trapped under tyranny. _(They ignored how Dream was close to fitting the title.)_

Still, they wondered if it had really been worth it. L’Manburg was a nation now, with its own ruling government, and if they had helped, the title of President could be gained through election. They would even have power - Eret wasn’t blind as to who really ruled their country. But now, they were banned from the walls, and even as Esempi’s king, they couldn’t enter. Wilbur was stubborn, and refused trade deals, resorting to ignoring the way his people struggled to find enough food to sustain themselves through the coming winter months.

In that sense, Niki was an angel when she arrived, bringing with her the scent of bread and flour. Talking with her took time - history spread quickly in such a small area and Eret knew better than to push. When she finally gave them a chance they weren’t sure they had earned, a spark of hope pushed through the damp cloak of loneliness they hadn’t realised they were draped in.

In the same way, her friendship somehow made the isolation worse. With the loneliness came the unbearable silence that smothered them, and a life with blackened vision and no noise but their heels on the floor became more and more noticeable. Their only real contact with Esempi was Dream’s weekly delivery of paperwork, and the smug grin they received whenever they caught Sapnap’s eye from beyond their walls. So when Niki brought Fundy, loud and brash and full of words to spill, Fundy, who actually looked them in the eyes and told truths in a world filled with lies, they cried. They didn’t expect the offer of forgiveness, and they would work to earn it.

But with forgiveness returned the internal conflict, and Eret would lie awake, tossing and turning along with their thoughts. It was clear that their crown and cloak was that of a puppet - a piece on Dream’s ever expanding chessboard. Sure, they might hold the title of ‘King’, but they weren’t given the respect of one, the power of one.They could only observe as their home server became weaker, only realising now that they could not storm an attack without creating conflict between the server they belonged to and the server they were bound to.

Eret was trapped in jewel encrusted chains that pulled them in both directions, and the metal would not snap before they did.

They winced as Niki and Fundy asked for campaign advice, as though they hadn’t had a crown placed on their head before the blood had dried from their companion’s bodies. Helping wasn’t their specialty, but it was so clear when they arrived on Election Night that it didn't matter - the pair weren’t crowd favourites. Instead, Wilbur and Tommy’s opposition were that of duck wings and slicked back hair, sharp eyes and fake smiles that left a sinking feeling in their gut.

Eret hadn’t expected Schlatt to win - they don’t think anybody did, but it was so clear the gut feeling was correct when the man had declared himself ‘Emperor’, before outlawing the very people who created L’Manburg in the first place. They watched dumbfounded as Wilbur and Tommy were chased out of their nation, their own allies against them. Niki seemed to be the only one against the senseless declaration and they could only wonder why Wilbur had collected such disloyal citizens.

They stuck around only to listen to the orders of demolition, something inside breaking along with the walls and Tubbo’s calm mask. Eret tried to help him, but the sharp gaze of George was a reminder of their place - seen not heard. Instead they offered refuge to refugees, expecting the biting anger of two men drowning in betrayal but still letting them know. It didn’t work, and they were left as an unwilling bystander, watching as Niki’s taxes were raised, as Fundy became quieter, as Tubbo emerged from the White House with bruised bracelets around his wrists.

_(They could only watch as Dream gave resources to Pogtopia, watch as Fundy wrote a secret diary to an outsider that didn’t exist, watch as everything they oversaw crumbled. When they try to leave the server one day and realise the exit had been sealed off, something in them finally snaps. They scream themself hoarse with tears that feel like blood and a heart weighed down by golden chains. They collapsed where they were and slept curled under a tree, waking to the sounds of fireworks and screaming.)_

_5_

He watched his friend descend into madness and could do nothing but speed up the process.

He never planned to visit Esempi despite being whitelisted - the constant awkward tension between Dream and himself made him want to curl up in the dirt of his potato farm. He stuck by Phil’s side instead, content with the daily letters the man received from Wilbur. But when he was woken with the sound of a peppy song, one linked up for a certain child who specifically hated it, something in his chest sunk. Answering the call to panicked rambling and bubbling tears had him leaving home in record time, only leaving a note for Phil 

Techno had come to the server to aid those closest to him, and was only ever viewed as a tool.

He remembered the day he had met Wilbur so clearly, and the memory seemed closer the longer he spent in Pogtopia’s ravine.The towering walls and dull light was eerily reminiscent of when Phil introduced his new son, stone and lantern light only replaced by blackstone and a single torch held by the winged man with hair of gold. It had been before Techno dared to venture into the Overworld, to live with those disgusted by his kind. Back then, they had both been shy, too quiet, wary eyed and paranoid. Nowadays in banishment, Wilbur had reverted back to the teenager Techno had first befriended, with a penchant for weaponry and the darkness. It only seemed fitting that he began to treat people subhumanly, just as he had when he and Techno ran experiments away from Phil’s eyes.

He remembered how they had bonded over the voices. Techno’s head cried out for blood and violence, for the death of humanity, while Wilbur’s whispered promises of tragedy and destruction, of great floods and storms. They got on like netherrack and fire, and in time, as Wilbur recovered from whatever Phil had saved him from, he became the third member to their duo, the siren musician to the Blood God’s Executioner and the Angel of Death.

He hadn’t heard the man sing properly ever since he arrived - the only music uttered being the vague, slurred lyrics of an anthem to a home he and Tommy couldn’t return to.

The child was different too, even if he tried not to be. It was painfully obvious to Techno in the way Tommy hoarded and rationed food he was given, how he stayed up for hours before collapsing where he stood instead of trying to sleep through whatever night terrors he had. It made something in his heart tug when he was pestered by a shaking boy with dark eyebags and fading eyes; he couldn’t bring himself to be harsh.

As exilement smudged weeks into months, he spent less and less time in Pogtopia, opting for the comforting warmth of his home dimension. A small part of him felt guilty, leaving the other two all by their lonesome, Tubbo the sole visitor, trapped between his spot as Manberg’s Secretary of State and Wilbur’s spy. The rest of him warned about the lack of protection in the Overworld - no matter the endless sets of Netherite armour and weaponry he made, the other side had the same amount, with more enchantments and more fighters.

_(Techno ignored how Wilbur’s gaze had become the biggest danger of all, something different behind its usual analysis. When the musician mentioned the cold, the voices screamed.)_

Change came with the festival announcement. Tommy and Wilbur weren’t invited as expected, but he had been, Dream delivering the invitation personally, ink written in shaking cursive. The man had given Techno an odd look as he left, hood raised high as if to compensate for his lack of power. He only realised what the look had meant later when Wilbur caught sight of the paper, a gleam in his eye that left Techno defenceless against the man’s demands of attendance. It had been a look of warning for something that Dream believed he needed knowledge of, yet he had realised too late as he caught Tommy’s eye, an eye filled with foreign fear.

Wilbur had changed; passion warped, humanity distant, and Techno became his personal weapon, loaded at enemy lines with no say in his direction.

Gone were the mutters of a proud anthem, replaced by endless countings of TNT, of sand and gunpowder, replaced by giggling fits that ended with the man shivering and aching for a sliver of warmth. Instead of carefully laid out plans to remove Niki and Tubbo from the nation they were trapped in, nothing could convince him the pair weren’t traitors working with Schlatt, no matter how much Tommy protested.

_(He had only been gone 30 minutes, checking if the President had unlocked the Hub portal, if outside communication was an option. Tommy’s excuse of falling down the stairs was betrayed by the trembling of his hands and the flat look in Wilbur’s eyes.)_

The day of the festival was upon them too soon, Tommy’s head injury soothed only by bandages and stubbornness. Techno approached Manberg alone, armed to the tusks yet with enough room for anxiety to slither into the gaps of his armour. Quackity’s demand for his mask to be removed was quickly dropped with a glare, and he walked straight into enemy grounds, shoulders tense with hands clenched ~~and shaking~~.

Whispers of a warrior’s title followed him throughout the hours of forced normality, curiosity, hope and contempt mixed together to join the cacophony of sound in his head. He didn’t recognise many people, only catching glimpses of them previously from the server’s Hub screen that showcased joyful antics, encouraging people to join. A young hybrid with a furious glare, ears tucked under a hat and tail made into a belt, a young woman bubbling with anger, followed by the scent of flour and sugar. Others were unfamiliar, a man adorned in worn golden armour with the thrum of gunpowder under his skin, a tall boy dressed in purple who looked at the stage skittishly. And then there was Schlatt, someone Techno had never considered a friend, but perhaps once a companion, loud, drunk and holding power above the heads of every attendee.

He hadn’t been able to stop moving since he arrived, energy curled too tight in his stomach and forcing its way into his lungs. People wouldn’t keep their eyes off of him, but the worst came from the tall buildings barricading the podium grounds in lines of defence. It was the same way one might gaze into the polished metal of their sword, mapping out every chip and dent. _(It was the way you might look at someone if you didn’t care what happened to them.)_

His only hope was to play along and wait for the festival’s end.

_(There were so many eyes on him with Tubbo curled trapped before him, and the President’s demands were background noise to his own breathing and shaking. Why wasn’t Wilbur messaging him what to do? The eyes were so intense and the shouts so loud that Techno could barely focus on Tubbo’s frightened face and choked pleas as he muttered an apology, took aim and fired. Before the light vanished from the boy’s eyes, he saw an understanding. Then he turned around and fired wildly into the crowd, the screeches of his mind demanding retribution.)_

_4_

He ran against the President to stop possible tyranny and created a dictatorship in his arrogance.

His arrival on the server was very different to what he expected, finally meeting the boy he had talked to only through letters and crackling calls at inopportune times. And it was a painful realisation, noticing how the events he thought were scripted and only semi serious were so very, very real. Eyebags and scars, glassy eyes and shaking hands, he was a child of the sky in a world where freedom was shackled to the ground, no matter which nation he walked through. And so he pushed for the rules to be broken, for the walls around a land to be open to anybody.

Quackity had only the safety of L’Manburg in mind as he stood behind Schlatt and pretended like he had a say in anything.

It was easy at first, ruling alongside Schlatt. The man appreciated him, complimented him, played into his flirting and was someone that people listened to. It was a new role, something fun and yet, so very powerful to have. And so, he ignored how the citizens would glare his way to mutter insults under their breath, and simply chose to see the good in what the new government was doing. Sure, the new President of L- Manberg had made some… unique decisions, but he was clearly just getting used to the new power, as anybody would.

_(He watched Tommy from along the path, the exiled former Vice atop a skeletal horse and clutching a sword in white-knuckled hands. Quackity let him go just like he let Niki go, and wondered why. He dismissed concern as pity and continued on.)_

It’s only when Schlatt called him into the White House one day, shining floors already dotted with water and dirt, that Quackity let himself question. Of course, with the glassy panel of Admin controls hovering over the President’s hand, it was only natural. He knew that Wilbur had some control over the land he fought and died for, but it had never been that much. It had never been server life control or terraforming, nor the summon of thunder and lightning, of hunger spells. Dream would not have given up the control he had, so Schlatt had stolen it from under his fingertips.

He watched with unease as Schlatt brought down the server respawns to 2. Only two chances to start over. One warning and one threat. An eternal war.

The following day brought with it a new decree - no masks or face coverings. It was a small change, with a reason behind it, but the air grew heavy with tension and crowding storm clouds. If anything, nobody had ever seen Fundy’s face before, but everyone knew it shouldn’t be marked with the slap of a hand. And everyone knew, even Quackity himself, that it was the beginning of something dark, something Dream hadn’t done because at least, over everything else, the man respected his citizens. 

Niki stormed the White House, fury held tight as a weapon, tongue forged into a whip - she was L’Manburg’s last line of defence. Punz threw her out with her taxed doubled once more - Schlatt used the excuse of her being the best food source and needing to keep working over petty complaints. When Quackity pointed out that L’Manburg didn’t even have a tax system, nudging the President’s hands away from his feathers, Schlatt’s eyes grew dark and the shadow of a boy missing his best friend tugged him out of the room with the excuse of paperwork troubles, stumbling over an empty wine bottle in the hallway.

He didn;t see much of Tubbo after that, or maybe he did, because the decree of the next day outlawed hybrid traits and it brought back back memories Quackity had buried deep enough to suffocate, of running and cruel laughter and tiny bloodied butter yellow feathers being _ripped, ripped, ripped_ , so he stuffed silky wings under a too tight suit and let his body move on autopilot, let his mouth spill out information, and kept his brain smothered in the clouds he yearned for, letting Schlatt’s eyes wander and grin widen to the likes of Dream during war.

His mind finally returned during the week of the Festival, woken by colourful streamers with the scent of tension and alcohol on the breeze. It took too long to count the days that had passed, monotonous paperwork broken only by small talk not worth remembering. Tubbo’s excitement over his carefully crafted speech was the only joy left in the country. Quackity could only listen as Schlatt’s silver-bladed words were interrupted by the sickening fire of his wings, folded for days and weeks on end. _(Somewhere distant, he remembered his mama’s words of warning, of furious, broken pride and forever broken wing bones.)_

_(He wondered if he deserved it.)_

The festival games were overshadowed by the fear of the Blood God’s Disciple, of bloody tournaments and begging for mercy - too soon he watched himself box an innocent child in concrete and stand by Schlatt, the only thing he was good for. The yellow prison on the blackstone podium reminded him of L’Manburg’s walls, walls that had blocked out the outsiders for a good reason. As Technoblade raised his crossbow, Quackity desperately wondered if he had just _let Wilbur win-_

The blast was enough to throw Schlatt and himself off the stage, and as he fell he burned, watching the butter yellow box splatter with crimson and gore. The President was lucky - his neck snapped on impact - he did not wake with burn scars as his killer. The Vice was never so lucky, and Quackity fell on his back, on his _wings_ and the pain was enough to bring what he thought was unconsciousness. 

But when he woke in his bed, stiff with numb skin, he knew he bled out in the end ~~alone~~. He was not worthy of a merciful death, so he cried with some sort of last lingering emotion, broken with Schlatt’s arrival and demands to _get off your flat ass and do something worthwhile._

As he stood, legs buckling, he felt the wrongly healed bone of his wings rub away at themselves once more. And he wondered what his breaking point would be.

_(The arrow embedded in Schlatt’s chest would be the only remnants of his time in Manberg. As Quackity left, shaking with fear and adrenaline, he finally yanked off the suit jacket and tugged his wings free. The agony was too great to even properly scream, broken bones and twisted feathers leaving blood dripping on the ground as he sobbed, a wheezing cry the only noise that escaped his mouth. Tommy found him in a pool of his own blood, wings mangled with little hope of repair, adequete punishment for an escaped bird.)_

_3_

He was a friend, a soldier, a right hand man and a spy, when he only ever wanted to be a kid.

At first it was the discs, childhood music and a bench overlooking the sunset. Something peaceful and idyllic. Then it was the land of a newly formed nation, the strong smelling fumes of potions and bloody blackstone rooms. Then it was peacetime, something grasped at but not quite succeeded, calluses warping the hands that knitted together flower crowns and bow strings alike. He had never been one for wars, for power or ruling, yet he stood at the side of those who yearned for it. So Manberg had been different, not peaceful yet no bloodshed. He thought it would be different.

Tubbo was tired of the fighting, of the blood and gore, and he was exhausted by the explosions that decorated the inside of his eyes.

He had never liked explosions, the smoke and the spark reminiscent of ambushes where he thought he was safe. Of invasions and a brutal anarchistic world. He swore that the War for Independence would be the last time he allowed himself near such sounds. And yet, with his careful trips to Pogtopia, trips that had clearly not been careful enough, it seemed only fitting as he locked eyes with Wilbur and Tommy, the ones that started it all, that the hiss and bang of a firework would be the last thing Tubbo would ever hear.

The first time he woke, he was blind - the skin of his eyelids too new to yet open. Back pressed against hard rock and dampened cloth pressed against his bare skin, he had wondered if this was what permanent death would be like - eternal pain and heat. He was too tired to even wonder where he was ~~if he was alive~~ , to even panic over who had him. It was easier to let himself sleep. So he did.

When he woke next he had regained some sense of human instinct, breath seizing in his chest as he cracked open his eyes to darkness. The only reassurance was the tap on the back of his left hand, left by a finger marked by a small raised scar caused by the sharp edge of a music disc. The cloth was moved off his face and he gazed into the greying eyes of his best friend, blond hair matted as though he had run his fingers through countless times. A loud mouth opened but no sound came out, and something in him broke.

Tubbo was alive, but in the body of a corpse. It only seemed fitting that he didn’t function anymore.

Processing that he was deaf was pushed to the backburner as he learned to walk all over again. Unsteady steps that left pain shooting up his right leg, a crutch whittled from a tree branch did little to help. Everyone stopped by at some point, bringing small gifts and eyes filled with enough pity to drown him. His favourite sugar cookies from Niki, an old worn down bee plushie from when he and Tommy were alone against the world, ~~a crossbow from Wilbur~~. And surprisingly, a new outfit from Quackity, eyes cast down and whitened scars reaching up the left side of his neck. The hug Tubbo initiated made them both wince, but Quackity seemed a little more like his old self as he left.

_(Tubbo saw the exposed bone of the young man’s ~~the boy’s~~ wings and wanted to vomit; how could he ever delude himself into thinking Schlatt could bring peace.)_

Techno’s visit was painful and short, only there long enough to leave a book on the floor and pushed away by Tommy’s silent shouting. A book on sign language would be useful if Tubbo could force his aching fingers to work and if ~~Tommy~~ people would pay enough attention to him to learn.

He wondered, with a long brewing bitterness, why he always received the short end of the stick. Staring at the scar of Punz’s sword that slit Wilbur’s throat, remembering the matching scars he had bandaged on Tommy’s chest, a gift from Dream’s axe and bow, he traced the long healed gash in his neck. Sapnap always had been brutal, but he never did have enough strength to properly behead somebody.

He sees Niki and Jack, free of scars, Eret with old marks over their eyes and regret carved into the bones of their body, and he wondered if he could’ve ever lived a life like that. Maybe in another lifetime, he could’ve been the one to hide as his best friend was stabbed straight through the throat, if only to stop the constant nightmares and lack of security.

_(He knew in his heart it wouldn’t have changed anything; sunglasses could only hide eyebags so well. He pretended anyway.)_

He wasn’t there when Tommy and Quackity stopped Wilbur from pressing the button, and when he heard about it, he wondered, with a brain and a body that never was meant for war, why he felt so empty. L’Manburg, Manberg, two countries formed on the blood of its previous rulers, of child soldiers and spies, of three lives and the pain of its occupants. He wondered, as he watched Wilbur raise a cigarette to his lips and let the smoke rise like the fire of a lost flag, _(watched Schlatt raise a bottle to his lips and drown the nation in his problems)_ when he lost his love for the land he fought for. 

Instead of staying underground to sit through plans he couldn’t hear, Tubbo snuck out to join Sam in the ocean depths, where the water prevented talking and overthinking. He let the Badlands nudge him in the right direction; They were calm and they preferred talking to fighting _(he wondered when L’Manburg lost its core values)_ , he let Ant direct his fighting in a way more suited for his height, let Bad help him with potion brewing, let Skeppy help with moving smoothly with stiff skin.

In the end, he couldn’t accept their offer to join, and they knew that - they let him go with the promise of assistance, not as a faction but as friends. And he felt a little calmer.

_(Dream’s perch on Pogtopian rails as he grinned about a traitor was lost on Tubbo, silence in his ears and crude swears in his mind. He wondered, with a sort of tired horror, how plans had been destroyed so quickly, the cracks in their schemes like the cracks in their minds. He missed when he could sit peacefully with Tommy, make flower crowns and listen to the discs. Now his hands didn't have enough control to peel potatoes and the only noises he could hear were his own internal conflict. He could only wonder if he would ever be allowed to just be a kid under the rule of control freaks, generals and tyrants.)_

_2_

He was banished from the server and had swore his return with the flip of a coin.

Hacking back in with the whispered words of two naive children was harder than stealing the election from greedy fingertips. It only took kind words and the promise of power for people to be on his side, and he watched with a grin as Wilbur’s eyes burned with the same fury they did as he was burnt alive in lava streams. The same kind of fury that let him know Wilbur never could recover from betrayals, never could let go of petty grudges. A look that made it so very clear that stubbornness would always overrule common sense, that pride would always be held higher than any offer of assistance.

Schlatt became a dictator to a nation too reliant on peace to feed itself properly and wondered how they could believe they were free.

Banishing Wilbur and Tommy was something in the heat of the moment, alcohol already in his system as he made his speech. It wasn’t without reason though - it was clear Wilbur would never accept this outcome, and Tommy was his personal soldier, ready to cut down whomever his mentor pointed him towards. They would have to go. And if Schlatt changed the nation’s name just to let Wilbur know he wasn’t getting it back, that was only for himself to know.

It would start off simple, no masks, nothing to hide. Dream wouldn’t dare enter the country with such a rule, and his silver tongue would not whisper in any ears. Schlatt also made sure to relocate the Admin controls to himself. After all, if Dream was to be so renowned across servers, surely he could live and fight without them.

Changing the lives of the people would be a risk he had to take - nobody would dare permanently kill him, which left them with fewer options.

He made sure to tax Niki - the people needed food and she needed to be kept busy. But it wasn’t enough, the control wasn’t enough. And it came down to his cabinet. Poor, naive Quackity, flaunting his fluffy wings wherever he went, so clearly oblivious to how easy it would be to rip them off. And Fundy, just letting his ears and tail out, so open to being yanked or slashed. It makes something burn in him, something angry and bitter.

_(He sat at night, hunched over his desk and threading fingers through hair that used to be obscured by proud curling horns. His head ached with phantom pain and he opened another bottle to drown out the pain.)_

He knew that Tubbo’s execution was the breaking point, the thing that truly turned his nation against him. The kid was somebody that everybody liked, and to see him in gasping tears, reduced to bones and gore during a festival he himself had planned out, was an event that cemented Schlatt as someone who needed to be taken down. Quackity, his stupid, airheaded Vice, weak enough to shut down as soon as his wings were being protected, _left_ , as if the bitch would be of any use to the pitiful rebellion Wilbur had set up.

Nowadays, even the mention of Wilbur brought back history that made Schlatt’s vision go red, of grabbing the man’s arm and shoving him into the lava, or before that with endless days of panic, desperately trying to outrace the rising tides. His stupid voices that dragged Schlatt into their games, of being driven to the point of an insanity he never quite recovered from. At least killing his ~~old friend~~ nemesis had gotten rid of him for a time, reconvening years later and never able to talk properly. How could they when he had believed the man had let himself sink into the lava with no respawns?

He refused to let Wilbur win, not again. So in the dead of night, he snuck into bases, into secret tunnels that he had observed, searching for something to capture the interest of one masked green man. And in a library hidden away from the public eye, he found a simple book, a crude symbol etched into the cover that could change everything. The ability to revive somebody who had experienced permadeath.

After that, it only took his silver tongue and the wave of a page to gain a new ally in an almost empty cabinet. Fundy was the only remaining citizen loyal to him, not to his money or his position. Dream supplies him with shimmering armour and a bow that pulsated with enchantments powerful enough to injure someone even in the best of armour. And so a date was set, a final confrontation.

He made sure to open the server gates temporarily, as to allow Dream to fetch his right hand man from where he had been locked out when he had first grasped control. And as the day drew closer, he paid a visit to the Puppet King, someone who hoarded armour for guards that would never be appointed and collected enough supplies for an army they would never be leader of. But the castle doors were barred shut despite the silhouette in the window, a foolish stand against an actual leader. Eret refused to cooperate and Schlatt slipped a word to Dream over the sip of another bottle.

With nobody around, he could easily drink himself unconscious as often as he wanted. It was a comfort, the haze was, something that let him forget how his people didn’t care for him, how they refused to see the good in what he was doing. They were all on the side of a man who let them waste away under his rule, a child who revelled in conflicts so often as though he couldn’t settle with peace. A cabinet so weak that they were made up of _children_ , of young men and women that had never experienced such a system. At least he had the decency to let his Vice be of age.

Schlatt opened another bottle as the dawn of the 16th crept in through the windows.

_(Slouched over in a caravan with history too lengthy for him to know, he drank until his vision was too distorted to tell an ally from an enemy - as if there was ever anyone on his side. His last hope sat crouched on the roof, a blur of orange, black and white, of shimmering enchantment, and he watched himself smash a bottle over Fundy’s head, yelling incoherently. Fire burnt his chest and smoke filled his nostrils as he finally collapsed, wheezing about toast. J. Schlatt died alone and undignified, a sight that couldn’t even be called victorious to his subjects.)_

_1_

He had always wondered how far the pressure to be ‘the responsible one’ would last.

Between him and Techno, he was always the one who was expected to be level headed, the one who shouldn’t resort to violence. Double standards raised the new him alongside his new father, and by the Gods did they leave their impressions. His Earth server only served to prove his father’s loyalties - to a son who wasn’t even his son. And so, he left their family home to the calls of two kids whom he had guided with little help, to face a man who was so similar yet different to someone who became his first new friend, someone he might consider a brother.

Wilbur started his L’Manburg with shoulders broken with burdens and was kicked out with the pieces of a breaking mind. 

Pogtopia was so different to what he was used to. His childhood was a blur, nothing but travel and open plains - the voices had lured him away with their promises. He met a boy, carved cruel by the world he had faced, unbalanced from what used to be curled horns on his head. They made their server home among towering mountains and the waters began to rise at an unnatural pace, but it was a peaceful server and though they could drown over and over they could never die. And so the voices gave up, and there was calm for a time, but then the lava rose along with the tension in the air. And the friendship formed between those who could only suffer in life burnt away with Wilbur’s body in the lava.

He thought he had died - he should have died, he made that decision before he was even pushed. He let himself burn and accepted he wouldn’t be allowed to live. But yet he awoke in the sky, on a tiny platform with no support and voices that boomed in the sky.

He didn’t know, still doesn’t know how long he stayed up there. The Sky Gods were merciless, they wanted to see how he could cope with dying animals and limited resources. He remembered screaming into the night, wasting away. And then there was Phil. A man who was never cut out to be a father, so free spirited and wild, yet too kind hearted to leave him in the sky. And so Wilbur was brought back to the ground and he _lived_.

It was years of just Phil and Techno until he met Tommy and Tubbo. Anarchy servers were where they had grown up and lived - they were survivors, rough and chaotic and dangerously smart. They refused to stay with Phil, so Wilbur coerced them into living away from the constant danger. He couldn’t help them like Phil had helped him, so he provided anything else they needed. And they had needed him in Esempi.

He knew what he was doing wasn’t helping him - the voices only grew louder with the blood that was shed despite his efforts to remain peaceful. By the time they were exiled by Schlatt of all people, he knew he was beyond repair. The small rational part that still desperately clawed at peace was suffocated in the darkness of their ravine, the last lingering flame lighting a cigarette under his fingertips. He was never suited for a good life.

Sleep evaded him before the final day - he read and read old books of heroes and villains that he and Techno had always loved. Phil had never liked them reading such tales, if only because the pair were morbid in their fascination. They gave themselves names, Orpheus and Achilles, and laughed as they found comfort in stories. The musician and the fighter, the talker and the immortal, a touch of madness that never quite left.

_(Techno looks at him blankly one night as Tommy sleeps and asks if he had ever found his Eurydice. Wilbur can only dissolve into hysterics as he thinks of a striped flag and walls that protected them all. He had. And she was dead.)_

He was the first casualty of the war - Schlatt shot him from the tower and he respawned there, where he was killed once more. It might have worried him once to be on one life, but not anymore, when he would greet death as a friend and barter for his nation. Surrounded by companions that he might have once considered friends but now knew they were merely a promise, a barter, an offer away from always betraying him. Eret, forever Sisyphus, such a glaring example. Finally punished for escaping death in the Control Room by a crown so easily snatched from their head and placed on another. They were the original traitor, and everyone had followed in their footsteps.

The battle wasn't short, but they had all prepared for that. Led by Technoblade, his only weakness far beyond the server borders, they stormed Manberg and Wilbur watched from behind as they marched across the bridge, knowing that they’d never see their L’Manburg again. She was forever gone, buried in the remains of her flag and trampled by the feet of the dishonest. And though she was born in the ashes of war, she was never a phoenix.

He tempted fate by wearing no armour - so easily a target yet too valuable to lose. It was fitting that he didn’t die, he had been in the Underworld of Pogtopia for so long and this was merely the journey to the surface. L’Manburg was in his grasp, but it was only a ghost, a pale imitation of its former glory. And so he watched as they closed in on the camervan, something that seemed like a lifetime ago.

Schlatt’s death had been a long time coming, but to see him pass with no punishment made something boil in his blood. Only struck down by his own incompetence and addiction, it was a last laugh by a man only ever driven to punish the world as it had him. As his body grew still, the only remnants of his time in the van were the glass shards stuck in Fundy’s arms, the suffocation of alcohol and a panel floating above Dream’s hand. 

Slipping away from the celebration and crowning of the new president shouldn’t have been easy. But as he turned from the podium, taking one last look at what once was his, he knew it couldn’t remain. Walking to the button room, he reminisced. Two kids, now men, always Theseus and Pirithous. Icarus, broken and unable to lift his golden wings, destroyed by his own hubris. His poor son Anius, always knowing but never able to prevent things. And Achilles, always the fighter - he would never settle for peace.

The fireworks banged as he gazed longingly at the button, a release he had craved for a time he could not count. And he monologued as a villain should, because that’s what he had become. But a voice cut through the rants, a voice that had saved him time and time again. And there Phil stood, wings proud, never a character because he was a man that deserved a happy ending.

His dad did try, he really did. But he never did know quite how much the Sky Gods had touched his mind with madness. He was Orpheus truly, and he had found his Euridyce. And as the story dictated, he must lose her.

He pressed the button.

_0_

Phil could only lunge towards his son as the bombs went off, grabbing him in a frantic final attempt to _protect_. Papery wings wrapped themselves around Wilbur’s body as the room collapsed, a man so desperate to do something that he brushed his hand over the bed tucked into the corner of the room, letting the debris crush his body and his wings.

He had been on the server for only 5 minutes and had lost two lives. The first came from forcing himself through the world borders, only Admin experience and unethical magic allowing him to pass through without permadeath. And now, a second to prevent his son from losing a life. He woke only a minute later, Wilbur kneeling in the rubble with a choked giggle escaping his mouth, shaking hands grabbing his arms where Phil had hugged him before dying.

“Oh my God…”

His son turned as Phil staggered through the rubble on the ground, mouth agape. Because the city he had just flown over, the city he knew Wilbur had loved, was gone. The water that hadn’t evaporated began to flow into the crater where people once stood and the stench of gunpowder stained the air. The crater that had once been a statement for rebels, a home for children and a prison for its most loyal. Now nothing but an ugly wound in the heart of the land.

“Wil!” he could only shout, turning horrified to the figure hunched on the ground, who let out a sigh that turned into a grin that was so unlike Wilbur that Phil could only shudder. “It’s all gone!”

Wilbur climbed to his feet, clinging to the wall as support as he surveyed what was once his pride and joy. His eyes gleamed as he spun to face his father. “My L’Manburg, Phil! My unfinished symphony, forever unfinished.” 

Turning from Wilbur, he began to see figures emerge from behind buildings and from under rocks. A young man stumbled towards a larger group, wings dragging behind him. His own wings ached in sympathy, making Phil wince. He turned back to face his son, who had spread his arms open as if to embrace the chaos below them both. “If I can’t have this, no one can, Phil!”

“Oh my God,” Phil could only choke out again, as a familiar mess of pink hair stood out among the wreckage of L’Manburg, sword clenched in hand. Behind him stood the two children that Wilbur had always been so fond of, grasping at each other as they examined wounds. Their names escaped him, as did the name of the young man next to them, fox ears pushed flat against his head as he looked up to where Phil was.

“Kill me, Phil. Phil, kill me. Phil, _kill me_ ”

The words made the man whip around, hoping so desperately that he had misheard over the ringing in his ears. And yet, Wilbur was forcing a sword into his hands, metal warm from fire enchantments, something in his face that made Phil’s stomach drop. It reminded him of the day he had flown through the clouds, letting his wings free of their cloak disguise. The day he had found a boy who couldn’t have yet been an adult, stick thin and gaunt, shivering in the sky as he pleaded for Gods to end him. The day his son bore a face that he swore he would never allow again. Something so empty and broken, lifeless as though he were already a corpse.

“Phil, stab me with this sword, murder me now, kill- kill me.”

It was a plea, he realised. A final plea. But he _couldn’t_. Not to the boy he had raised into a man. Not to his sweet Wilbur, kind and helpful, so reliable, dependable. His son, so strong, who persevered through whatever madness had infected him before, _who could surely do it again._

His son, who was grinning maniacally, the smell of smoke embedded into his jacket, who had pressured Techno, who had stopped a child from rescuing his best friend. His Wilbur, who was asking Phil to kill him, uttering “Killza, Killza!”

“Do it, kill me, Phil. Murder me. Look, they all want you to.”

Wilbur’s voice seemed to fade into the background as Phil looked over L’Manburg once more. He hadn’t ever been able to enter the server before, only having seen his son’s land through the screens of the Hub, so heavily edited to only show the good side of the land. The letters spoke of the hardships, of the sacrifice. Of war and betrayal and a tyrant. The letters, which had stopped being sent months ago, the last a worrying shaking scrawl that betrayed how Wilbur had really felt, no matter the positive contents.

“Do it, Phil, kill me.”

“I- I can’t, you’re my _son!_ ”

“Phil, _kill me!_ ”

He felt physically ill, the smoke still swimming through the air. Wilbur wouldn’t give up - he wasn’t going to give up. And his wings wouldn’t stop _aching_ , a burning feeling that spread from their base to their tips. He tried to shift them forwards to check, but they barely moved, and all Phil could see was the fleeting grey painted dark with smoke before he was forced to leave them be. The dread pooled, and he let a hand brush backwards, reaching. And he felt ragged tears and small punctures, rough edges that had already healed over from death. Already healed. Unable to be fixed.

He tried to ignore it for now, tried to look back into his son’s eyes. “No matter what you do… no matter what you’ve done, I can’t-”

“Phil!” Wilbur spat. “This isn’t- Look! Look!”

He felt Techno’s gaze on him, a look of defeat and anger and concern all mixed together as he returned the look. His pseudo son looked _awful_ , hair matted and dull, armour dusty and cloak riddled with holes. He couldn’t bear to keep eye contact; He had left them both to face this alone when they had so clearly needed help.

“How much work went into this and it’s gone.” Wilbur sounded sickeningly proud, as if the crater was something he was proud of, as if it was something _Phil_ should be proud of. What on this server had pushed his son to ever go this far? To resort to terrorism just to win back some land that could be recreated anywhere. That wasn’t the Wilbur he knew. His Wilbur would never think of doing such a thing, would never even consider it an option.

“Do it. Do-”

The sword buried itself in Wilbur’s chest before he could complete what he was saying, flames creeping from the sides of the blade before it was yanked back out. He was still for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened, before his knees buckled and he fell forwards, into Phil’s awaiting arms. He smelled like cigarettes and extinguished hope, and Phil forced his wings forwards into one last shield. A last comforting hug before his son lost a life.

“God, you couldn’t just win.” Phil groaned, some semblance of softness still remaining. “You had to throw your toys out the pram.” Wilbur let out a wet laugh, head tucked under Phil’s chin as something warm leaked onto Phil’s collar. He couldn’t tell if it was blood or tears - he didn’t want to check. His front was already soaked crimson, and the smoke in the air was replaced with the metallic tang of blood and the stench of burnt flesh.

“Phil…”

A soft choked voice, thick with blood. Phil hummed and rubbed a comforting hand along his son’s back, like he did back when every night was sleepless and Wilbur’s voice was hoarse with screams and not injury.

“ Phil...Dream said earlier...that there was no traitor…”

The man tensed at the mention of Dream. An anger swelled at the mere thought of the man, so obnoxiously proud and confident; Did he even know what he had done to Wilbur? _Phil_ didn’t even know the extent of it. Wilbur continued on, oblivious to his father’s internal conflict.

“There was no traitor he said to me... do you know what?” His son let out a wheezing gasp that might have been laughter. “He fucking lied, he lied...Phil, it’s Technoblade.”

Phil’s head shot up, looking to Techno, who was still staring right at him, unblinking. The amount of blood that had been shed today...The Blood God would be so very loud at this point in time, demanding even more from his disciple. And by the looks of his shaking hands that had begun to reload his crossbow, Techno didn’t care to object. “Oh God... The most powerful person on this server.”

He looked back at his son, his pride in life, whose eyes were struggling to stay open. Tears had cleaned the soot and grime from his face and he could feel his own do the same. “Phil...he has withers, ready to go……” A last soft whisper, like the end of a melody, Wilbur’s eyes closed, glassy and flat. Life had left them a long time ago, but now the soul would leave as well. A last struggling breath that felt cold against his skin. And then his son fell still. Gone was the smile that had stretched his face - it had been replaced with a soft rise of his lips, akin to the way he looked when playing music.

Phil gently lay his son to rest on the ground among the rubble of his best creation, and turned to face the crowd below. Techno had begun to retreat, unnoticed by anybody, and Phil knew he needed to leave. Still, he left one final glance at his son’s body and to the bed nearby. It didn’t seem to be the bed his son would wake in soon. He could only hope it was a bed somewhere away from the chaos.

And so Phil stood oblivious, blood smeared across his clothing, clutching a sword that was never meant for a fighter to use, gazing across the land in wait for his son. And below him, a child screamed in mourning for a man who was never meant to die.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed as this is my first time writing fanfic in years! Feel free to ask any questions in the comments section


End file.
